Never Left Behind
by Vivi-ntvg
Summary: A year after the Reichenbach fall, the Machine gives Reese and Finch Sherlock's number. This raises a number of questions: is he really dead? And if he's not, what is a British detective doing in Manhattan? To detect the threat and save Sherlock's life, they enlist the help of the man who knew him better than anyone else: John Watson.
1. Suspicions

**A/N: So, I've decided to try and cross these two great series. I know there are far more Sherlockians out there than Irrelevants, so if by any chance there is any Sherlockian interested in reading this but who has never seen Person of Interest, watch these two videos: /watch?v=UqhT3_oZ2CY and /watch?v=6QseSt0QkY8 and you'll understand what's going on. (You should also try watching the series, it's amazing)**

* * *

Finch looked at the screen and frowned. The machine had been behaving erratically for some time now, and it showed no sign of improvement. That virus Stanton had implanted, whatever it was, had certainly affected his creation, which was working slower than usual, taking its time to bring them information. For instance, the number that had just come in was the first in two full days, and if he was sure of one thing was that crime in New York didn't take such a long break. But he'd have to deal with that later, because right now he was carrying out some research on their latest number.

A few minutes later, Reese entered the library with a paper glass of green tea, his favourite. He wordlessly put it on top of Finch's desk and absently patted Bear on the head while staring at his partner's screen.

"New number?" the tall man asked.

"Name's Sherlock Holmes. British, single, one brother working in the government, used to be a 'consulting detective' for Scotland Yard. Helped them out with some cases and gained a lot of notoriety. Doctor John Watson, his flatmate, wrote up some of their cases in his personal blog."

"Where is he now?"

"Well, that's the thing… A year ago, Holmes jumped off a rooftop. He died on the spot."

Reese looked at the various newspaper articles that appeared on the screen, reporting the incident. It seemed the man had been declared a fake, that he was no genius, and that was what had led to his suicide. However, if the machine had come up with his number, there was definitely something off with that picture. The ex-CIA agent would never forget Teresa Whitaker, the girl who had supposedly been killed when in reality she'd kept up that ruse for years.

"Do you think that his death wasn't really a suicide? That he was murdered, and now the killer's going after someone else?" Reese recalled the recent case of the murderer who took his victims' identities, and how they had been given the numbers of his previous killings.

"Maybe, but it seems a bit strange that the killer would only come out again after a year. Besides, I've uncovered some evidence that suggests something else was going on. According to the newspapers, his body was processed by the St. Bartholomew's morgue. However, I've hacked into their records, and while there _is _a death certificate signed by a certain Molly Hooper, there is no record of his body ever being stored in the morgue. Usually, they're kept for about a week. Apart from that, two bags of blood were reported missing that same day, and what's more, the following day, this Hooper woman called in sick. It seems suspicious. Additionally, I've looked into the cemetery's registers, and Mr. Holmes' body was apparently not put inside his coffin, because the family said something about donating it to science… It seems too much of a coincidence. "

"So, maybe Hooper helped him fake his death and disappear? Didn't anyone else know of this? What about his flatmate? She can't have pulled off such a thing on her own."

"Well, I've looked up his address, and he still lives in the same place. His records don't show anything strange, no unusual money drawings, or anything else that might suggest a connection. The same goes for Hooper."

"But we can't be sure they aren't aiding him somehow. I need to talk them both, Finch. Do you think you can arrange for me to travel to London? "

"Actually, I've already made some plans for that. Doctor Watson and Molly Hooper are travelling here next month. They were selected for a course in an important medical school. The doctor is going to have a course in surgery, while Ms. Hooper is coming for a special injury detection course."

Reese smiled. "Can you actually make up something as big as that?"

Finch gave him a look. "I've created several false identities for you, Mr. Reese. I can certainly get some doctors to pretend to be teaching."

* * *

John stared at the rain falling outside. He'd been sitting in the same position for a few hours now, not that he cared. Nothing seemed to matter anymore; nothing ever happened to him, just like it used to be before moving in to 221b.

After coming back from Afghanistan, he didn't exactly know what he was going to do. Heck, he didn't even know how he'd make a living from a simple pension. And then he'd met Sherlock. Despite the strange introduction he'd had, he had felt a sort of connection from the very beginning. Their months living together, solving crimes, had been the best ones of his life. Although there were times that the detective could really annoy him, and sometimes he wondered if he would be better off living somewhere else, deep down he knew he wouldn't have changed that way of living for the world.

Yet that had been taken from him, in the form of a single man: Moriarty. The criminal had appeared out of nowhere and started taunting Sherlock, giving him puzzles, challenging him in a way nobody else had until that moment. Both had turned into the other one's obsession, both brilliant, cunning men with little sense of morality and sometimes lacking empathy. It had started as a threat, then turned into something much more serious. After discrediting his best friend in every possible way, after making the whole world believe Sherlock was a fraud, he had forced him to kill himself. And now John was left alone, with no clue of what he was supposed to do.

He didn't care about Sherlock's last words that he was a fake: to John, the man would always be a genius, and nobody would change his mind. What really bothered him, what kept him up most nights, were the images of his violent death, his bloody corpse lying on the pavement, and then seeing his lifeless eyes, staring out into nothingness. Plus, he had no idea of what his life was going to be now. Sure, he'd helped the police out, but always as his friend's assistant; he lacked that kind of insight in cases. Nor could he find inside himself any wish to go to a crime scene.

He sighed. Maybe this course he was going to take would help, if only a bit. He really had no desire to visit New York, but the opportunity and the fact of having been chosen among other doctors made him feel he had to go. So he'd accepted, and in two days he was leaving for three weeks. He knew he wouldn't feel any better, but perhaps a bit of time off, trying to avoid thinking about all that had happened, would do him good.

He went over to the table and looked at the ticket. Since Molly had been given the chance to attend a course as well, they'd arranged to go together. He just hoped that it wouldn't be extremely awkward, considering they didn't know each other that much. Usually, she cared more for Sherlock. Just like him…

Yes, he could definitely use some time away from home.

* * *

Reese stood silently by one of the airport's cafes, carefully studying the people who had just got off the plane and were leaving. He had looked at some pictures of Watson and Hooper and was now waiting for them. He was supposed to be some kind of assistant to one of the doctors (whose identities he had no idea of) and bring them to their hotel, which would allow him to keep a close eye on them in case they tried to contact Holmes. Speaking of whom, they still didn't know where he could possibly be.

Ah, there they came. The tall man straightened and walked to where they were both carrying their luggage, talking rather quietly. He got closer and said, "Hello, my name's John Hamilton. I'm the assistant of doctor Keith Andrews. Are you John Watson and Molly Hooper?" When they both nodded, he added, "I'm to take you to your hotel. Please follow me. Oh, let me help you with that." He took both of their suitcases and carried them effortlessly across the airport, the other two trailing behind.

While they got inside the van and he put the items inside the boot, he looked at his mobile's screen, which now read "John Watson – FORCE PAIRING COMPLETE". He swiftly pressed a few buttons, and as he climbed into the vehicle, he checked it again. It now read "Molly Hooper – FORCE PAIRING COMPLETE". While he started the car, he thought of this whole case again. With access to the unsuspecting people's mobile phones, he would be able to track them with ease, something they would need if they were to find Sherlock Holmes in time. He still had no idea whatsoever of what their roles in all of this was, but he was going to find out.


	2. Planning ahead

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I'll keep your suggestions in mind. Enjoy another chapter!**

* * *

Sherlock hastened along the crowded avenue, trying to pass unnoticed. Luckily for him, in New York there were always hundreds of people walking, which made him blend in with ease. Still, he knew that his enemies were still there, lurking in the shadows, looking for him. Well, actually the people looking for him were all henchmen, hired by one man who was the one person he had left to finish what he had started a year earlier: to end with Moriarty's network, once and for all.

The man who had, so far, managed to elude him, was the right hand of the consulting criminal: Sebastian Moran. He'd been watching the detective from a distance, Sherlock was certain, while he struggled to complete the task of finding each and every person Moriarty was connected to, which was far from easy. The network he was trying to destroy was a vast one, full of powerful people, as well as several ordinary men and women, who were the hardest to detect.

However, twelve months after jumping off the rooftop of St Barts, he was close to achieving his goal. He was completely sure that only Moran remained; he had been extremely thorough. Yet, precisely because he was a single man, it was easier for him to remain hidden, out of sight. Sherlock had had to pull in several favours, as well as the usage of his extensive homeless network, to track him, and just when he thought he'd found him, the criminal had run off to America. The detective didn't have to think twice, and he immediately followed him by pretending to be a steward and then hiding somewhere in the plane. Now, after a couple of weeks, he had finally managed to plan a complicated scheme to catch Moran once and for all.

What worried him a lot, though (as much as tried not to think about it) was what he was supposed to do when he came back. He was well aware that what he'd done to John was cruel, even if it had been to save his life. Sherlock knew that the doctor would miss him, just as surely as he missed John. And he did; he'd admitted that to himself long ago, because it was the only possible explanation for the loneliness and slight sadness that he'd been feeling after a few weeks, emotions the detective hardly ever experienced. He missed running off after some lunatic with John by his side, their bantering in the flat, and overall, the feeling of protection that he felt while he was close to him.

All of this wouldn't make approaching the doctor again an easy task; he knew he'd done extensive damage, and it wouldn't simply be repaired if he showed up again. He'd have to explain what he had been doing all that time, and why he had forced John to watch him jump. He knew he would be pissed with him, maybe enough to punch him, and he had every right to be. Sherlock just hoped that at some time, his flatmate might be able to forgive him.

A sudden movement at an alleyway caught his eye and he came back to the present; he could worry about John later. For now, he had to finish his job first. He carefully looked at the dark coat disappearing behind a trash bin and had no doubt; he was being watched. However, the success of his plan depended on him not arousing suspicion, which he certainly would if he chased after the man, so he simply adjusted his scarf to his neck and kept walking.

From a window in a nearby building, Sebastian Moran looked at his boss' enemy walking and smiled; did he really think he could just disappear in the crowd? No amount of people would have been enough to hide that slender, elegant figure with a dark coat and blue scarf. The detective thought he had the upper hand, but he really didn't, and he was soon going to find out.

In a very short time, he would ensure Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Reese stood by a window, right next to the people who were coming out of a room. Sometimes, the things that Finch did were really amazing; he could actually pay off some teachers and about a dozen of people to pretend to go on a course. Obviously, he wasn't one to complain, since it was the only way to observe their British guests without raising any suspicions.

He noticed Molly Hooper passing by and strolled forward casually, throwing down some books she was carrying.

"Oh, sorry", he said. "My fault. Let me carry these for you, they are quite heavy."

"Oh, um… right, sure. Uh, you were the doctor's assistant, right? What was your name again?"

"Hamilton, but you can call me John."

"Uh, ok."

While they silently made their way towards the exit, John seized his chance and asked, "If you don't mind my asking, have you and John Watson been friends for a long time?"

"No, not really… why?"

"Because since you both work in the same area and have come here together, I just assumed you were."

"No, no… Um, actually, what happened was that we both lost someone who… was very dear to both of us. So we came here, trying to put it all behind us."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes, he jumped off a rooftop. It was quite shocking actually."

"That's awful."

"Yes, it is. For a couple of days afterwards, I could barely concentrate on my work…" She trailed off. "Oh, we're here. Uh, thank you for carrying my books."

"No problem". As she walked away, Reese tapped on his earpiece and commented, "She seems like a very anxious person, Finch. I doubt she could hide something as large as a faked death for very long."

"Nevertheless, I'll keep digging. She still seems suspicious."

That afternoon, John was staring out the window, again. He sighed. The reason he had bothered to come here at all in the first place was to change his routine from back at Baker Street and do something different, and yet here he was, in the exact same position that he'd been for so long in London. The course had been alright, and he'd gained a great deal of useful knowledge, but it was over for the day and he found himself wondering what to do. Not being able to come up with anything better, he decided he'd at least go to the dining room and help himself to something. He wasn't really hungry, but since the meals were already paid, he may as well make use of that.

Just as he was about to enter the place, he saw the guy who had picked them up the previous day. Something was different about him, although he couldn't tell exactly what. At that very moment, the man spotted him and waved him over. Without any excuse, John reluctantly complied. As he approached the assistant and his relaxed, friendly expression, the doctor realised what had appeared so different: for a second, he had looked quite tense, as if he were expecting an attack, and seemed very focused. When John sat down next to him, he glanced at his haircut and his eyes, and there he saw it: eyes that had seen too much. All of those elements triggered his memory, reminding him of the first time he had met Sherlock.

"You were a soldier once, weren't you?" he blurted out, without even saying hello. Then he winced; he'd been isolated for so long, he'd nearly forgotten about social conventions. However, the man didn't appear to be bothered by that, only a bit surprised.

"How can you tell?"

"Your haircut and the way you were holding yourself, focused, prepared, seemed military. I was a soldier too."

"Oh" John Hamilton, he remembered he was called, was taken aback for a second, then sighed and said "Yeah, I decided to leave. I had witnessed far too much." He seemed like he had thought of something else he didn't plan to say. "What about you?"

"I got shot and was sent back home."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is it something impeding?"

"No, not really. I've got a psychosomatic wound in my leg, though." He didn't mention the fact it had actually gone away for a while. Or rather, he didn't want to mention the _reason_ why it had gone away.

"It doesn't look like you do."

So John explained to him that he was unaccustomed to depending on a walking stick. For a while, they talked about their experiences at war, both understanding each other's opinion and commenting on the cruelties they had seen. When he finally left, the doctor felt somewhat better. For his part, Reese was relieved too; he had never spoken a lot about being a Green Beret. Of course, the other man couldn't know that the worst things he'd been through hadn't exactly been in the Army, but the CIA. He'd previously known about John's career thanks to Finch, but he hadn't really imagined they could have a heart-to-heart of sorts. However, as pleasant as it had felt, he had to keep in mind what his true objective was: to get John to open up completely and maybe reveal something about Sherlock's whereabouts.

He had a feeling he was on the right path.


	3. Revelations

Sitting in a café, Sherlock sighed. He disliked being at these crowded places; he was a bit of a loner, after all. The only person whose company he actually enjoyed was John, and he was far away from him now, believing he was dead. However, if everything went according to plan, soon he'd get a surprise, and hopefully Sherlock would be able to go back to his previous life. And the plan required him acting like a "normal" person, and not himself.

To avoid unwanted attention, to become as invisible as the wind, would be essential for his idea to work. He'd managed to find a minor drug dealer who knew Moran and had told him the criminal was up to some negotiations with a hacker. Apparently, the man had found some pretty dirty secrets about a top FBI agent or something like that, and Moran had given the man counsel on what to do with the information, much like the consulting his boss had been known for. It had only taken Sherlock a few drinks with the man to get him to open up and reveal the exact location and time of the exchange. So now he had to keep hidden for a couple of days, or else he would risk Moran knowing that he was up to something.

Getting rid of the henchmen would probably not be difficult, given that the criminal, according to his informant, liked to keep his business as secret as possible, and he wouldn't have more than two or three people with him, which would make it much easier for him to wipe them out. He just needed a gun, which he had already procured, and it would pretty much be a piece of cake. Obviously, he'd recruited a couple of homeless people, just in case. When he got rid of the sidekicks, he'd find Moran and finally finish his job. As for the hacker, well, he'd see what he did with him.

Once he had done all that, he'd go about getting back to England, thinking of what he was going to tell John, and restoring his public image. Not that he cared about the latter much, but he knew it was vital if he wanted to keep getting clients. Once he was done with all of this. And Sherlock knew he was close to that.

Meanwhile, in a different part of New York, Sebastian Moran was smoking calmly, reading the report one of his men had written on the current situation. It seemed that Collins, a very small dealer that had sold him some stuff once or twice, had given his latest plan away to the one man he was looking for: Sherlock Holmes. At first, he'd been quite mad at the man and almost had him killed, but then he'd realised something much more important: the detective knew about the exchange with the hacker, but he didn't know that _he_ knew. And obviously he'd show up, which would make him a perfect target. So he merely let the dealer go and carefully selected a few people to accompany him the day that all was taking place. It wouldn't take a lot to kill Sherlock Holmes if he didn't know there were a lot of snipers out there. Of course, he knew the man would probably have his suspicions, but they wouldn't be enough to save him.

Moran could already taste the sweet flavour of victory.

John was walking out from the classroom, barely paying attention to his surroundings since his head was inside a fascinating book about surgery that he'd just been given, when he thought he heard someone call his name. However, many people were named John, so he just assumed he wasn't the one being called and kept on reading. When he heard "John Watson!", though, he was forced to look up, finding himself in the presence of John Hamilton.

"Hello, John."

"Oh, hello. What are you doing here?"

"I'm the doctor's assistant, remember? I'm helping him. I've just finished my shift, though."

"I've just come out of the course" replied John, showing him the book and then putting it away. "Anyway, are you going to the hotel now?"

"Yes, and since I suppose so are you, I was wondering if you wanted to go have lunch or something."

"Er, sure. Why not?" John Watson usually wasn't so open, but he liked the soldier and, after all, what else was he going to do? So he simply tagged along.

As he poured himself and John Watson a drink, Reese regretfully put a bit of wine inside the doctor's glass. He didn't like having to do that, it felt as if he was cheating him somehow, but he knew he had to if he wanted to get some information about Sherlock Holmes; that was, after all, the reason why he had approached him in the first place. When he was done, he walked back towards their table.

A couple of wine glasses later, John's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"Do you know what brought me here?" he asked Reese. "Do you?"

"No, not really. What was it?"

"I was trying to put some stuff behind me. Some terrible things that happened." He took a deep breath. "When I got back to London from Afghanistan, after I'd been shot, I didn't know what I was going to do. I couldn't exactly afford to live on an Army pension, and I had no friends or anything. And then I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes." John shuddered. "Have you ever heard of him?"

Reese shook his head. It seemed like his strategy had worked.

"Well, he was a bloody brilliant detective. Could look at you and deduce your whole life in seconds just by looking at some tiny details. He did that to me the first time we met and it was amazing. He even knew that I had come there to see if the two of us could share a flat together! Well, we did. At first it was quite strange; just a couple of minutes after we'd moved in, he invited me to a crime scene to give him my opinion. I think he only wanted someone to talk to and boast… Anyway, in a matter of twenty four hours, I'd chased a serial killer running on rooftops, been abducted by his brother, and shot a murderer because of him. Not exactly what you'd call a normal flatmate… But I enjoyed that lifestyle, you know. It was just what a man like me needed: some action. And it all went well… until Moriarty."

John seemed to glower with anger then, and Reese instantly paid more attention; he'd never heard of this Moriarty before. Finch, who was listening to the conversation, looked him up on the computer and commented, "A criminal who broke into some of England's most secure buildings, yet he was declared innocent. Apparently, he was actually an actor hired by Holmes himself to pretend to be his enemy. He disappeared on the same day Holmes died."

"Moriarty", John was saying, "wasn't your ordinary thief. Oh no. He was just as brilliant as Sherlock was, but he had no moral or regard for human life whatsoever. He began chasing Sherlock, taunting him, and then one day he started wrapping people up in explosives and having them talk to him, daring him to solve certain crimes within a couple of hours or people would die. Heck, I even ended up inside a bomb vest myself…" He trailed off. "Anyway, the thing is, one day he broke into a lot of places, and then got out free. And that's when he started destroying Sherlock, slowly. First, he kidnapped some kids and made it appear like Sherlock was the one who had done it. Then Sherlock got arrested, and though we managed to escape, his image had already been damaged. People thought he was a fake. And then, on the rooftop of Saint Barts, he…" This time he seemed to gasp for air, and then the tears began streaming down his eyes. Reese was alarmed by this, but John went on: "… he called me and told me he was a fake. I was down there, you know? Watching him standing on the edge, and I didn't –actually, don't, because I still think so – believe him. And then he jumped. Right in front of my very eyes."

John couldn't continue speaking; his sobs didn't allow him to. Unsure of what to do, Reese held the man's shoulder until he calmed down enough to continue. "And just like that, it was all over. And once again, I had no idea of what to do. I still don't, as a matter of fact."

"Come now, let's get you to the hotel." The ex-CIA agent helped the doctor out of his chair and into a taxi. Once they arrived at the hotel, he carried the still-weeping man upstairs and into his room; he hoped that his half-drunk state wouldn't allow him to wonder how Reese knew which room he was in or how he had a key. After he left, he felt his phone ringing, so he tapped his earpiece and said, "Did you get anything from all of that, Finch?"

"Actually, I did. While you were helping Mr. Watson, I was digging further into this Moriarty man and I've found out several interesting things. It seems that, on the day Mr. Holmes died, the British civil records were altered. One person was created and another was deleted. The new addition was Richard Brooks. And guess who the deleted person was?"

"Moriarty?"

"Precisely. I imagine Richard Brooks was his new identity. I managed to find his original file, but there wasn't anything useful. Apparently, all they had registered about him were his crimes. So I dug a bit deeper and was able to trace a credit card. Moriarty received several deposits from different people, all of varying origins. However, he himself made regular deposits on a bank account. It was difficult, but I was able to find its owner: Sebastian Moran. He's been convicted a few times, but the charges have always been dropped. The last time this card was used was to buy a plane ticket. The destination was New York."

"So what do we make of all of this? Is Moran after Holmes?"

"Perhaps. We still need some more evidence, but since we can't seem to find Holmes anywhere, I'm guessing we'll have to track this man down. Maybe he can lead us to him."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, but I'll keep looking. It can't be very difficult."

"Nothing is very difficult for you, Finch" Reese teased.

"As much as I appreciate your confidence in my skills, Mr. Reese, what I do can be quite challenging." And with that, the communication was ended.

* * *

**A/N: I didn't really like the plan, but since I'm not Mark Gatiss or Steven Moffat, I couldn't come up with anything better.**

**Anyway, I'm afraid we've now been given a school project (I'm at IT school) that takes the whole year and involves all our subjects, so I may not be able to upload so frequently now. But I won't abandon the story, don't worry ;)**


	4. Lost and Found

"I have bad news for you, Mr. Reese" Finch said.

"What is it?" Reese asked. He was currently pretending to type on his computer; after all, he was supposed to be some doctor's personal assistant, so he had to play the part. Of course, the only ones who it was important to fool were Hooper and Watson, seeing as the others knew they were getting paid to act as medical students. He was pretty sure they didn't have a clue of why they had to do that, but he also imagined they didn't care: Finch had probably paid them a large amount.

"I'm afraid that we've lost Miss Hooper. She threw her mobile away, and she didn't even check out from her hotel. I've hacked into her phone but there's nothing to explain why she left."

"So what do you think? Does she suspect something?"

"No, there's no reason for her to have suspicions. No, I believe she left for some other, urgent reason: something related to Mr. Holmes, perhaps."

"Maybe she went to meet with him. Maybe he's here and he's trying to help her, and someone's after him. What about Moran?"

"Or he could have taken her. Remember that we don't know for sure yet, Mr. Reese, whether Holmes is the victim or the perpetrator."

"I think what Watson said made it quite clear that –"

"He was his best friend, Mr. Reese – of course he would say such things." Finch tried to swallow down the hard lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, as, unbidden, memories of Nathan came to his mind. He tried to bury them down and focus on the present. "But that doesn't mean that he knew all about him. After all, when Holmes claimed to be a fake, Watson didn't believe him, but neither could he explain why he killed himself. Perhaps there was a darker side about him."

Reese found it doubtful, since he'd seen the sincerity in John Watson's eyes when speaking about his flatmate, but he chose to keep quiet.

"We'll just have to – wait a minute." Finch stared at his screen with a bit of surprise, and what he saw confirmed his suspicions. "Mr. Reese, I believe I have just located Moran."

"What? Where is he?" Reese got up in a flash, ignoring the looks he got from the people around him.

"I managed to track down the current location of Moran's mobile phone from a hidden network he belongs to. I found the phone's IMEI code when I broke into the records of the company where Moran bought it, which I knew through his credit records. It was difficult, but I found a very secure and suspicious-looking network which I've been trying to hack for a while now, and I've just managed it. His IMEI code showed up immediately."

"So where is he now?"

"Fifth Avenue. I'm sending you the exact coordinates, so you can keep track of him. Meanwhile, I'll try to find Miss Hooper. I'll keep you posted." Reese was barely paying any attention now as he practically run away from the medical centre.

* * *

Reese was watching the dark-haired, tall man standing on the bridge, just staring at the sea. This was the right-hand of the man who was supposedly the greatest criminal mind of all times and one of the most dangerous as well. And here he was, continuing his legacy. Maybe, if Holmes wasn't dead, then this Sebastian Moran was following him and was the threat the Machine had identified. Reese refused to believe that Holmes was somehow involved in Hooper's disappearance; after all his experience with the CIA, he knew very well when someone was lying, and he could certainly see the grief in doctor Watson's eyes as he talked about his (supposedly) dead partner, as well as his firm belief that Sherlock Holmes was no fraud. Of course, Finch was right when he said Watson may not have known everything about him, but deep down he had the feeling the man wasn't their perpetrator.

Moran's phone rang then, and Reese automatically paid more attention.

"It's me, Adam, sir. We are keeping an eye on the target; he still acts perfectly normal. It seems that he doesn't see us."

"Nonsense. He prides himself on his capability of observation; I don't think being away from home has changed that. He's just pretending not to notice you, probably trying to avoid attention… As if we didn't know he's here. Anyway, has anything happened?"

"Not really, sir. He just keeps going to cafes and sleeping on park benches."

"Mr. Reese" Finch's voice interrupted, "I believe they are talking about Sherlock Holmes. If they keep the conversation going, I might be able to track the other mobile down."

Before the other man could agree, there was suddenly a blur of movement somewhere near him. Reese didn't even need to wonder what was happening; he just turned around and punched the guy who was coming at him in the face, sending him to the ground. He looked back and, sure enough, Moran was gone.

"They know, Finch. They know we're watching them."

"But I very much doubt they know who we are, Mr. Reese. Besides, they have no way of knowing we're tracking Moran's phone. We can get him at any time we want."

"The time may be now, Finch. I –" he interrupted himself when he heard a small noise indicating there was a call on hold. "Someone's calling, Finch. Got to go. I'll get to Moran's new location." He ended that call and was greeted by an anxious-sounding Watson.

"Hello, Mr. Hamilton."

"Call me John, please." the ex-CIA agent said, in the most relaxed way possible.

"Ok, em, John, about yesterday… I really wasn't myself, you know. I normally wouldn't have talked so much, but so much has happened…"he trailed off.

"It's OK," Reese assured him soothingly. "I know what it feels like to lose someone. It's happened to me as well."

"Really? I mean, I'm sorry to hear that. But it was… umm… you could say relieving, in a way. I had never talked about that before."

Believing it was probably a convenient moment to get some information, Reese said carefully, "I imagine so. After all, considering what you told me yesterday, it seems like the two of you were pretty close. Like you knew each other perfectly."

"Yes, we did. I'm not sure he considered me his friend, because he once told me he had no friends, and frankly, he could be a real… But I know I thought of him as my best friend." For some reason, he sounded somewhat reluctant to say this; he clearly wasn't fully comfortable speaking about that.

"I see." Fully convinced now that Sherlock Holmes was an innocent man, he decided it was better to go back to tracking Moran, and therefore saving the detective. "I'm afraid I have to go now, John. But I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Bye."

Not an hour later, while Reese was walking among the crowd that could usually be found in New York's streets, he felt his phone ring and saw it was Moran's.

"Sir, I think Sherlock Holmes may have changed his mind about something."

"What do you mean?" Moran's voice sounded somewhat threatening.

"He was sitting in a café, like he usually does, and suddenly he bolted off. We can still see him, of course, but it's not his behaviour of these past days. Maybe he's not coming to the deal."

"Don't be an idiot; he just wants to distract you. Where is he now?"

"We're in Central Park, and he's near the zoo. He can't get away from us – not very far, anyway."

"Just keep an eye on him, and continue these reports. Call me later, you know when."

Reese almost missed the last words; he was busy rushing towards the famous park.

* * *

Sherlock leaned casually against a tree. His strategy had, at least partially, worked: he'd decided to unexpectedly run, not intending to put any distance between him and his followers (they were everywhere anyway) but to disconcert them. He'd been acting normal for so long, he knew any change now would alarm them, and he had indeed caught a glimpse of one of the men searching his pockets, probably looking for his mobile phone. Moran would most likely not be fooled by that, of course, but his henchmen would be completely caught off guard. To be honest with himself, it was just to spite him, but after all the time he'd spent lurking in the shadows, trying to find criminals, even he had had enough and needed some sort of pleasure: the one that came with beating criminals. He hoped it would all be over soon.

Realising that such a train of thought would lead him to John once more, he tried to distract himself by looking around, bored. And that's when he spotted him: a tall man with gray hair wearing a suit, walking around. At least that's what most people would have thought he was doing, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't most people. He could see the tension in the man's posture, the readiness to attack at a moment's notice: a soldier, obviously (a part of his mind thought of John once more, but he ignored it). However, he also possessed a certain stealthiness, and there was something calm and collected about his movements, as if he wanted to avoid attracting attention: a spy, Sherlock realised.

Curious, Sherlock decided to risk getting closer. After all, none of Moran's henchmen had been professionals; they were mere burglars or robbers who he had protected in one or another way. Besides, the criminal would never spend money hiring an actual spy; it was too much of a waste, even if it was to catch the detective. So he casually reduced the distance between them until he could see the faint lines in the man's forehead, the shape of a gun against his waist, and the tiny device in his ear.

_Constant worries over the past few years, going by the deep marks. Ready to kill at a moment's notice, but careful about it. Expensive suit, but the shoes are quite worn, so he doesn't care about his appearance very much. Suit is probably a present from the same person who gave him the earpiece. No sign of anxiety when I look straight at him: he's not been ordered to keep hidden._

All of this led Sherlock to conclude that, whoever this spy was, he clearly didn't belong to Moriarty's network. People in his profession often wore expensive clothes, but the shoes proved he didn't mind that, so he was probably a private spy working for someone whose main priority wasn't to keep hidden; therefore, this man's intention wasn't to get any kind of information from him. Yet, if he was watching him, he probably knew who he was. But that couldn't be; no one knew that he was actually alive, apart from Molly and the whole group of criminals that were following him. So what was this man looking for?

He decided he'd find out, so he simply walked away from the park, and just as he expected, the man walked a safe distance behind him. He then paid more attention to his eyes, and saw that this tall man was looking _around_ him rather than _at_ him. Almost as if he was expecting someone to come out and –

_Oh_. Wait. Was this unknown man… _watching his back_? It made no sense, but it fit all the data he'd just collected. He had to find out _why_, and soon. But for now, he wouldn't say anything and allow the man to follow him.

A few feet behind the detective, Reese realised that John's tales about Sherlock's abilities had probably not been an exaggeration. Holmes had looked right at him, and Reese knew he knew. However, he hadn't said anything or run off, so perhaps he wasn't going to get away from him. Whatever the case, John knew he had to watch out for this man, or Moran would get to him first. And he wasn't going to let that happen.

* * *

**A/N: I actually had a lot of fun writing about Sherlock's deductions. I'm sorry this took so long to upload, but don't worry; the series season is over now, sadly (including POI) so I'll have time to write on the weekends. Thanks for sticking with the story! :D**


	5. The Truth

Once again, Sherlock sat in a café. The difference between when he had first come to New York and the past few days was that he was being followed by someone who appeared to be protecting him. It could be a distraction, but by whom? The man clearly hadn't been hired by Moran, and nobody else knew of his presence there. The state of his suit, which had been sewn back together several times going by its marks, plus the worn shoes, told the detective that this activity of following people was obviously something the man was used to, as well as fighting others, so he was still in them activity of spying. Sherlock kept going over these facts, but it still didn't make sense: why would anyone send someone to protect him? The only one who would've cared about his safety was John; and he was quite sure John didn't have a clue he was alive.

Meanwhile, in a nearby table, Reese watched and waited, as usual. Except that now he was positive the other man knew he was following him, but he hadn't done anything like running off suddenly, so maybe the detective didn't care so much about that. Reese was wondering if it wasn't completely pointless to keep trying to hide himself from the detective when it was so painfully obvious that Sherlock Holmes had already noticed him (and, if he considered John's stories about his abilities, then he probably had deduced what he was doing there as well), but then again he was being watched by a highly dangerous and intelligent criminal like Moran. If he simply tried to take Holmes somewhere safe, he could attract unwanted attention.

Some time later, Sherlock walked out of the café, Reese obviously trailing him. The latter was still thinking about what to do about the situation when a suspicious-looking man in a nearby alley caught his attention. He was watching the detective carefully, and Reese could see the gun in his hand. This was probably one of Moran's men, and even though the ex-CIA agent knew that the man had specific orders to only follow Holmes, he still kept an eye on him; after all, the other one was still a criminal and might try something.

At that moment, the man's mobile rang, and just in case, Reese looked at his own phone. Sure enough, Smith, one of Moriarty's henchmen, was calling him (Finch had cloned a couple more of the network's phones, for practical purposes).

"Do you have any clue of who the tall man is?" Smith asked.

"You mean the one following Holmes? No idea. But he's stuck to him like bubblegum to a shoe. I'm not so sure it's a good idea to let him linger. Something might go awry."

"Great" the other man said, an edge to his voice.

"What?"

"Another complication. You know what? I'm sick of Moriarty and his little games. I'm tired of following this elusive idiot when there seems to be no purpose of it. I'm done."

"What do you mean?"

"Get out there and kill the bastard. Now. I'll deal with Moran."

"You sure about that?"

"Completely. Go ahead."

"Ok."

Even as the last words were said, Reese lunged forward, just as the man in the alley raised his gun and aimed at Holmes. He was not a moment too soon, for he narrowly managed to push the detective out of the way of the bullet. He felt a slight pain and realised the tiny metal object had probably brushed his arm, but there was no time to think about it; two men were coming out of the alley, and he wasted no time kicking the gun out of the first man's hand. The two henchmen were extremely easy targets; they didn't have the skill to match him, and with a few swift punches he knocked them both out.

When he turned around, he realised that the man he was supposed to be following had fled. _Damn._ Walking away as quickly as possible, he tapped on his earpiece and said, "Finch, we have a problem. Holmes ran away from me." He described what happened, and then Finch replied, "We need to get Watson to a safe place."

"Do you think Moran knows about him?"

"Not that we know about, but if Holmes isn't innocent, he might come after him. We need to protect him; he's the only one who can help us find him, now that we've lost Hooper."

"All right. You do that. I'll keep looking."

"Mr. Watson is more likely to come if you ask him, Mr. Reese. He doesn't know me."

"Fine. I'll send him to the library."

* * *

John looked at the man in glasses in front of him, with a bit of distrust. The call he'd received from John Hamilton had been so unexpected that he'd agreed to what he had asked out of pure surprise. Now, however, looking at all the screens and books surrounding him, he wondered how John could possibly be related to this guy, or what he might want from him. He only knew for sure the other one wasn't a doctor, seeing that the books on his shelves were completely unrelated to medicine.

"I need your help. It's important. Please go to this address immediately. You'll meet a friend of mine, Harold, there. He'll explain. But you _must_ go. Please" Those had been John's words.

Caught by surprise, he'd agreed and now he wondered what was up with this man called Harold. He'd just made him go in, addressing him as "Mr. Watson", and he'd been greeted by a large dog that looked a bit scary but had proven to be quite friendly. Absently scratching its head, he asked, "So, what is it?"

"Mr. Watson, I'm not sure how to say this to you. What I have to tell you will be quite shocking to you."

John didn't say anything and waited for him to continue in a rather doubtful manner. Nothing could shock him anymore, not after… He didn't allow himself to think of it.

Harold appeared to be at a loss for words, so he turned to one of the screens and typed something. Immediately, John felt his stomach drop; a picture of Sherlock was there, along with a number and the words "NON RELEVANT" written underneath. Was this man here to question him about Sherlock?

"What the- what's that?"

"That, Mr. Watson, is proof that Mr. Holmes may not jumped to his death last year."

John couldn't speak, so he just waited for the other man to explain.

"I can't tell you how, but we know that either his life is in danger, or he's endangering someone else's. So we brought you and Miss Hooper here in hopes you could help us find him. Your information was quite useful; we were able to track down Moran, one of Moriarty's henchmen, and found out he was following Mr. Holmes. However, since Miss Hooper disappeared, we were afraid he might be the perpetrator after all, so we-"

"She didn't disappear" interrupted John. "She just went to see some friends in the north, I don't remember exactly where. Said she would only be a few days." He couldn't say anything else; his mind couldn't seem to work properly.

"Did she tell you that?" The man in front of him looked a bit surprised.

"Of course."

"Well then, that proves that Mr. Reese was right."

"Who?"

"Oh, you met him as John Hamilton. But he's been tracking Moran, and he recently… he recently found Sherlock Holmes himself, followed by this criminal's henchmen. When they made a move on him, he was able to stop them, but lost Holmes on the process."

John's brain appeared to have stopped completely. It couldn't be. It _couldn't_. He had seen Sherlock jumping, had seen his body, shattered and bloody on the pavement. He had checked his pulse, for crying out loud, and he had _none_. So how could he still be alive? A smaller part of his mind that still functioned wondered why he had kept that from him and the thought hurt quite a bit. A bit disbelievingly, he asked, "And where is he now?"

"Well, Mr. Reese is trying to discover that as we speak. We are also keeping track of Moran himself –"he stared at his mobile and suddenly looked quite interested. "Mr. Watson, Moran is calling an unknown number which appears to be a payphone. If we listen to his call, he might tell us where your friend is."

"How can you-"

"Force pairing. I have a perfect clone of his mobile phone, which means I can see anything he does with it."

John briefly remembered the troubles he had once had with a cashier machine and felt something akin to wonder, though it wasn't exactly that, for there had only been one person that had given him that feeling. One person who might not be dead after all.

He still couldn't put a finger around it.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I know you know we're following you, which is why I called this phone, and I know you were planning to come to my little deal this Saturday, but I'm afraid I don't want to wait anymore, so I'll just make this easy."

"I'm glad we can have this conversation. The whole following me around without doing anything was getting quite tedious."

When he heard Sherlock's voice, along with that particular word he used so much – tedious – something broke in him and he suddenly found himself trying to control his sobs. He was alive. Sherlock was alive, and yet he had chosen to keep that fact hidden from him. John could feel the anger towards the detective welling inside him, mixing with his wonder and delight that he was alive, and the combination was strange and only made his sobs worse. Still, he tried to concentrate: it was important they found out where Sherlock would be, so they could get him. Then, he could get mad with the man, punch him in the face or hug him. He wasn't sure which.

"I know. So let me just tell you this: it ends now, where it began then." The call ended.

Harold frowned. "It ends where it began? What's that supposed to mean?" Right then, the phone ringed again, but this time it said "Mr. Reese" on the screen.

"I take it you heard that, Finch?" John Hamilton's – Reese's, John remembered the man's real name was – voice said.

"Yes, but we're not sure what it may mean."

John was deep in thought. By "it" they could mean a lot of things, such as when Sherlock jumped, or Sherlock following the man… But that had all been due to Moriarty's actions. And then John knew.

"He means a swimming pool."

"Excuse me?" Finch said.

"Sherlock met Moriarty for the first time in a swimming pool. That's when everything started."

"Great thinking, John!" Reese praised him.

"Yes, but how are supposed to know which pool it is? I imagine there must be quite a few in the entire city, you know." Finch said, quite logically.

"Was any of them a crime scene? Ever?" John asked.

"Let me see." Finch did a quick search, then said, "Indeed, the Gallows school pool was the place where a terrible murder took place. A man was choked to death and then thrown inside the water."

"That's it then. But when are they meeting?" John said.

"His current mobile location is – it's the pool, actually" the other man said.

"So when he says _now_, he really means it. I have to run, Finch I need to stop him." Reese ended his call.

John stood up. "I'm coming too."

Finch looked a bit taken aback. "Pardon me, Mr. Watson, but in your current state, I doubt it's the best idea to-"

"I'll go. He was – is – my best friend. I'm not leaving him alone with some lunatic." John's eyes were completely decided and Finch realised there was no stopping him.

"All right. Then I'll go with you."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for reading so far!**


	6. Confrontation

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, but life - or rather, my school project - got in the way...**

* * *

Reese rode his motorbike, which he'd luckily left close behind, hoping that he would get to the swimming pool in time, because if he didn't, he was pretty sure John Watson would be utterly destroyed, at least emotionally speaking. The man had thought his best friend was dead for a year, now he'd been proved otherwise; if the detective was taken from him again, Reese wasn't sure he'd be able to cope with it.

So he travelled as fast as he dared, without speeding since he couldn't waste any time avoiding police cars, and mentally went through his arsenal of weapons, which was perfectly complete. He knew he'd have to kill Moran and quickly too; they couldn't afford to let him escape. The henchmen would undoubtedly be nearby, so he'd have to make sure to get rid of them before getting the criminal, or they might distract him. He continued imagining all the possible scenarios while he went towards his destination.

Meanwhile, John and Finch were travelling towards the school as well, only John was driving the luxury car without any regard for speeding regulations or traffic lights whatsoever. There was, yet again, a maniac after his best friend who he'd thought had died because of another maniac; he wasn't going to let anyone do anything to Sherlock again, and a stupid traffic light wasn't going to stop him. On the seat next to him, Finch, despite having his seatbelt on, was holding on to his seat tightly; not even Reese drove so quickly.

"Hum, Dr. Watson, not that I don't trust your driving abilities, but do you think you could slow down?"

"No time." The answer was sharp and Finch knew it would be better to let him be.

* * *

Sherlock put his hand in his pocket, feeling the trigger of the gun inside it; the weapon only gave him a slight feeling of security. He was quite certain Moran wasn't going to face him on his own; he wasn't the kind to leave matters unattended, after all, and if he had to have someone shoot the detective from behind to make sure he was finished off, he would without minding that some might call it a cowardly thing to do.

He looked up at the large building in front of him: the swimming pool of the Gallows school. He'd known this had been the place as soon as Moran had mentioned that "it would end then where it had begun in the past"; he remembered having read about this crime, and the evidence obviously pointed to one of the man's youngest colleagues (the victim had been a teacher); after all, the way in which he had been choked clearly suggested some expertise on the matter, and the suspect worked in a chicken farm, where he obviously did that to the animals. Besides, when they had appeared on television, it had been clear that the man and the victim's daughter were having an affair, which explained why they might want to get rid of him.

However, the New York police had never figured it out, and all of that was irrelevant now anyway. As he approached the door, he closed his fingers around the gun and prepared himself for what was about to come. When he pushed it open, he saw several things at once: the main one he noticed was Moran standing on the far end of the pool, but he also saw a few cigarette smudges near a dark corner, as well as traces of mud in a ladder that lead to a second floor, all of which made it evident that Moriarty's right hand wasn't alone. Not that that would stop him, of course.

"Well, look who's here" said the criminal. "We finally meet… personally. It's almost like the day you met _him_. Though I imagine I won't make such an impression on you."

Sherlock wasn't one to pointlessly chatter, much less with a man who had caused him so much trouble and who he was planning on killing. "You can save it. We both know why I'm here."

"Oh, yes – you want to kill me! You didn't want that with Moriarty, though, did you? He gave you what no one else could. He challenged you, made you part of the game. The great game. Well, I think I have at least created some _difficulties_ for you. Maybe not in the way _you_ enjoy it, but problems nevertheless."

"Whether I enjoyed it or not is none of your business" said the detective. He was slowly pulling the gun from the trigger, unwilling to give Moran what he wanted. "I've had enough of these games for a while." He pointed it at him. "Goodbye, Moran."

At that moment, a loud bang came from the second floor, just before Sherlock shot, and he looked up. The spy who had been following him around was there. He'd thought he'd lost him at the alley, after the man had impressively rid himself of Moran's henchmen (leading Sherlock to conclude, judging by his skill, that he'd been trained in the Army), but clearly he had still found him somehow. However, the important thing was that the man had hit the sniper who'd undoubtedly tried to shoot Sherlock, going by the angle of his rifle, in the back of the head, effectively knocking him unconscious. Almost without thinking, Sherlock looked back down, moved his gun to the dark corner where he'd seen the cigarette smudges and shot.

Just as he expected, he heard a cry of pain and the noise of metal hitting the ground, which obviously meant he was temporarily safe from gunshots. Of course, though, this only lasted for a moment, because then he heard the click of the safety being removed from a gun, and he found Moran aiming right at him, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. For a second it seemed he wanted to say something, and then he appeared to change his mind.

A gunshot was heard.

Nonetheless, Sherlock was perfectly fine, and blood was dripping from Moran's chest, where a bullet had visibly pierced his heart. He appeared to try to aim at the detective, but then he simply fell on the floor, clutching his chest. Sherlock looked up, but the spy, who looked quite relieved (he still didn't know why he was protecting him), had nothing in his hands, so he hadn't been the shooter. But then who…?

A door that was slightly ajar opened completely now, and then a man stepped out, lowering his gun. A man with sandy blond hair, holding himself perfectly steadily, with a steely look in his blue-grey eyes.

"John." The word came out in a mix of wonder, surprise and relief. He remembered, as if it had been yesterday, the night John had shot the taxi driver to stop him from taking the pill that could mean his death. The first time John had killed for him, even though he barely knew him, without hesitation. John, who always came at the exact moment, and who never faltered before any situation, no matter how dangerous. Once more, he had come in time to save his life.

The doctor turned to face him; he looked as if he wanted to say something but could not. He slowly put his gun away and began walking towards him. Several emotions could be read in his eyes: anger, betrayal, hurt, happiness, wonder, all of them at once. Finch, who had come in through another side door, watched the two of them, just like Reese above him.

When John was finally standing in front of Sherlock, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out. Then, quite unexpectedly for their audience (but not for Sherlock, who'd anticipated such a reaction), he punched him in the face. This time, unlike when they had been close to Irene Adler's house, he held nothing in reserve and went straight for his nose, breaking it. Sherlock could barely feel any pain, or the blood that was starting to run down his nose; he was too busy trying to gauge John's feelings at the moment. What worried him the most was that he wasn't sure if John could forgive him, and in that case… he didn't know what he'd do; to be honest, he hadn't even considered the possibility until now, and doubt wormed into his mind.

And then, all of a sudden, the doctor's arms were wrapped around his tall frame, embracing him with all the force he had. John let the tears roam his face freely now, not caring about who might be watching him, because all that mattered was the man he was hugging. He was alive, very much alive, and John felt angry and betrayed that his best friend hadn't deemed it necessary to tell him he wasn't dead, hence the punch. Yet he was also full of joy, because life without Sherlock had been dull, boring, and there had been nothing to hold on to.

"You should've told me", he said. "I could've helped you". He hadn't let go of him.

"Your life was in danger. I couldn't tell you." Sherlock didn't let go either.

"It doesn't matter. You know you can count on me – why didn't you even leave some kind of clue?!" Now the anger was kicking in again, and though he was trying to keep it in check, he simply couldn't. "I was completely broken, Sherlock! How could you do that to me?" He realised maybe he was revealing a bit too much, but oh well.

"John." Sherlock took a step back now and looked at him, a serious expression on his face. At least, as serious as it could be, considering his broken, bleeding nose. "If I'd told you, you would've been _killed_ and wouldn't be here with me now. I knew you would have wanted to help me, that's why I didn't say anything. I haven't exactly had the best of times during this past year, and I couldn't let you be dragged into it." The detective also felt he was saying some things that were quite private, but it was vital John knew this if he wanted to have a remote chance of fixing their friendship.

"And just _what_ do you think I've been doing this past year? I wasn't exactly overjoyed, you know. Hell, in fact maybe I wouldn't even have _found_ you if it wasn't for –" He remembered now that Harold and Reese were watching them, and turned around; so did Sherlock. Finch decided this was an appropriate moment to speak.

"We knew you would be involved in a crime, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid we had no idea of your role in it, or how you were still alive in the first place. So we brought Dr. Watson here to see if he could help us find you. And he did."

"So _you_ work for _him._" Sherlock stated, looking at the spy who had, during the time John punched him, come down next to the other man.

Reese smiled wryly. "I knew you'd probably figure out I was following you, from what John told me, but I suppose you couldn't guess my motives."

"There was no reason for anyone to protect me at all."

"See, that's where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes" the man with glasses said. "You were in trouble, and that was reason enough to us."

Sherlock analysed the strange looking man. _Expensive suit, well cared for, so obviously the one who gave the spy his suit. The glasses are an expensive brand as well, so clearly accustomed to large sums of cash. His fingerprints, especially on his thumbs, are slightly blurred, which suggests he works with computers. Dog fur on his shoe – long hairs, so a large dog who's really obedient, probably trained, possibly by the spy. Earpiece just like the other man's one – that's their means of communication. Overall rigid posture, plus a limp, indicates some kind of accident with severe consequences. _

"You give him information about people which you get from computers, talking through the earpiece you both have, and provide him anything he may need. You're some sort of software designer, which seems to be a safe job and explains the large funds, but the fact that he gave you a guard dog suggests it's not like that. Possibly, that's related to the accident you had a few years ago."

Finch looked at Sherlock in amazement. "How did you know all that?"

John spoke quickly, before his friend started showing off like he normally did. "It doesn't matter. The important thing is that you somehow knew how to find Sherlock, and I'm grateful to you for that."

"It's nothing, John – that's what we do" Reese said and smiled, while Finch nodded. The latter added, "So, now that we've found you and stopped Moran, I believe it is only right we should pay your plane tickets so you can get back to England."

"That would be convenient, given that none of us have a lot of cash." Sherlock nodded. He then noticed John glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and reluctantly added, "Thank you."

"But first", Reese commented, "I think we should get something for your nose, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

"Attention, please. All passengers of flight 201, destination London, please board the plane now. Passengers of flight 201 to London, we're boarding the aircraft now. "

The speaker went off, and John and Sherlock looked at Reese and Finch.

"Thanks" said John. "For everything."

"Don't mention it. It's our job." Reese said.

"By the way" Sherlock interrupted, "you haven't exactly explained what that is. Helping people who _will_ be in trouble, of course, but _how_ can you know that?"

Finch looked at him and said, "You'll be better off if you remain ignorant of that fact, Mr. Holmes. As much as I imagine you must hate not knowing something, it'll be safer for everyone."

"I'll figure it out", Sherlock promised. "Eventually."

Finch wasn't amused by this. "You won't."

"Oh, stop it" John cut them off. "Let's go. Goodbye." The two English men shook the Americans' hands and walked towards their gate.

"By the way", John said. "You owe me a _long_ explanation, I think."

"And you expect me to tell you on a _plane_, where we might be overheard?" John's face made him change his mind. "Fine, I'll explain on the flight."

The doctor nodded and looked away. He was still having a mixture of feelings regarding the whole situation, of course, the broken trust and the happiness still inside him, but he knew he was going back to his old life now. He was glad, for he'd never been able to get over Sherlock's – faked, he knew now - death, never been able to move on and leave him behind. Now that wouldn't be necessary.

Life was good again.

* * *

**A/N: So, that's it. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed and/or favourited! BTW, I'm a Johnlock shipper, so I'm sorry if their reunion seemed a little too emotional for you (if you thought so, you can say it in a review ;) ), but I tried my best to be as neutral as possible (of course there had to be a punch in the face, though xD).**

**Thanks for reading!**


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